


Rose Dust

by siobhrag



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Getting Together, Harry Potter Epilogue Compliant, M/M, Romance, Severus Snape Lives, Wordcount: 100-2.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21632338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siobhrag/pseuds/siobhrag
Summary: In a place full of bittersweet memories Harry unexpectedly got something he had been refused many years ago.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 3
Kudos: 124





	Rose Dust

**Author's Note:**

> Not betaed.

The roses were still there.

Harry stared in wonder at the flowers that should have turned into dust almost twenty years ago. But, surprisingly, they were still fresh, with droplets of dew glistening on their perfect petals. 

Harry was sure they were the same roses he had brought here, on that memorable day many years ago. 

He scavenged them from a neglected garden near one of the abandoned houses in Hogsmeade. When he saw them there, growing and blooming despite the neglect, he immediately thought they suited the occasion. He liked their colour instantly, pale dusty pink, plain but intriguing, just like the person Harry intended to give them to. One of the roses was shorter than the others; when he was carrying them, he dropped it, and the thin stem snapped almost in half.

Someone has been to the Shack. 

Knowing it to be a stupid action, Harry still frantically looked around the dusty room, as if the person who has been keeping the roses under the preserving charms all those years would be lurking somewhere in the corner. 

The interior of the dreadful place hasn’t changed a bit. Broken furniture, ragged curtains, dust everywhere. The gruesome dark red stain on the floor in the middle of the room. 

And the still fresh roses that seventeen-year-old Harry brought to the Shack to give to the person whose blood still adorned the floor of the room. 

Even eighteen years later, the now thirty-five-year-old Harry couldn’t explain, even to himself, what prompted him to bring the flowers that day; and say all the things he had said. 

Harry circumvented the blood stain and approached the dusty windowsill. He gingerly touched the pale pink flower, afraid it would disintegrate under his fingers. The petals were soft and alive, as if the rose has just been cut. 

Harry leaned on the windowsill. He looked around the room, remembering the scene from many years ago. How he stood there, nervous and eager, clutching the roses to his chest, pricking his fingers on the small thorns. Even now it seemed completely unbelievable that Snape actually listened to him, to his rumblings. 

Harry was still amazed how gently and carefully Snape declined and denied everything Harry said and offered. He took the roses, though. He still remembered Snape, standing near the same window Harry was leaning on now, his skin still ghostly pale from the blood loss, his throat tightly bandaged under the collar of his shirt, his hands clutching the prickly roses to his chest, just as Harry did a moment ago.

Harry smiled bitterly. Only many years later he actually understood that Snape was somewhat right in declining Harry’s feelings. It was the wise decision, at that time. 

But Harry had been wondering lately, if maybe, just maybe, he should have pushed at that time; tried harder to convince Snape, to make him believe what he was saying. 

True, everything would have been different. He wouldn’t have married Ginny (and divorced spectacularly); he wouldn’t have had his three amazing children. But he would have had him. Harry sighed… and almost chocked on air.

He didn’t notice them at first, but there were footprints in the dust covering the floor. They weren’t his own. He walked through the room on its other side. Harry stared. Someone has been visiting the Shack regularly. At closer examination he could see that there were several lines of footsteps, some being older than the other. They always followed the same route and led exactly to where Harry was standing now. 

He looked from the footprints to roses and back. There was one other thing he didn’t notice at first. The roses were lying on a book. The Prince’s Potions textbook. The textbook they both owned at some particular time. The textbook where Harry wrote about his admiration for Prince, even before he knew who he was.

Harry traced his finger through the dust covering the book. He really didn’t know why he came here today, after so many years. It was the day all this blood was spilt on the Shack’s floor, the day he thought he had almost lost something (or rather, someone) important. 

Harry smiled sadly and shook his head at his own stupidity. What’s the point in all of it now? He didn’t even know where Snape was, just as nobody else knew. What he felt now was irrelevant, as there was no way the object of his feelings would ever know that they still held true. 

Harry was almost ready to leave the dusty room and go back to the secret passage he used to get to the Shack, when he heard the door opening. Someone was entering the Shack. Torn between curiosity and panic, Harry had no time to make a decision, to hide or to stay. 

He heard the footsteps cross the short corridor slowly and enter the room. The doorway was at some distance from the window and was shadowed by the overhanging stairs to the second floor. Harry couldn’t quite see who the unexpected visitor was, until the person stepped further into the dimly lit room. 

Harry gasped quietly. 

Snape.

Alive. Older. More lines on his face, though his hair was just as jet black as it was almost twenty years ago. Still thin, still tall, with this regal ramrod straight back and proud posture. Those same fathomless, deep brown eyes were slowly taking in Harry’s changed appearance. It seemed as if Snape wasn’t surprised at all to see Harry here, as if he was expecting him, in fact. 

“Potter.” Harry started from his dazed entrancement. The voice that said his name bore a faint resemblance to Snape’s formerly rich and velvety voice. Now there was a slight rasp to it, which, to Harry’s surprise, grated pleasantly on his spine, making him shiver. 

“Snape.” Harry’s own voice came out as almost a squeal, completely unbecoming to a man of his age. 

They stared at each other for some time. Snape seemed to be in no hurry, as he leisurely looked over Harry. Harry self-consciously straightened his shoulders a bit, relieved that he changed into one of his best robes before coming to visit his children at Hogwarts. 

Harry gulped, a little nervously. “It was you who preserved the flowers, wasn’t it?”

Snape just nodded, still staring at him. 

“Why?” Harry asked in a barely audible whisper, growing restless with every second Snape spent staring at him. 

Snape shrugged and turned his head to the window. “No one has ever given me flowers, not before, not after.”

He turned his head back to look at Harry again, his gaze blazing with something that was suppressed for many, many years. 

And suddenly Harry understood. Snape lied to him. He lied to him all those years ago. The realisation hit him like a Bladger to his head. He understood why. It was all for his sake. For the sake of a foolish seventeen-year-old boy who was ready to throw himself, his life and his heart to the feet of that dark, complicated, but, oh, so fascinating man.

Harry rushed to Snape, stepping on the bloody stain in his haste. He grabbed at Snape’s robe and shook him slightly. As well as he could shake someone as tall as Snape was. “Why?” He knew the answer, though.

“You know why.” Snape didn’t even try to free himself from Harry’s clutching hands. 

Harry made some pathetic half-sob. “You…” He shook Snape again, this time almost imperceptibly. 

Snape’s hands closed around Harry’s. He manipulated their hands until their fingers were entwined and he was holding Harry’s hands tightly. 

“Yes, that’s what I am. Take it or leave it, Potter.” 

Harry sobbed again and pressed his forehead to Snape’s shoulder. 

Their hands were held at an awkward position, but Harry didn’t pay attention to any discomfort he might feel, not now. 

“So what would it be, Potter?” Snape looked down at Harry, his gaze almost unreadable, a glimmer of hope peeking out from behind his carefully schooled neutral expression. 

Harry breather in deeply and looked straight into Snape’s eyes. “I’ll take it.”

Snape nodded and smiled his barely noticeable smile. “Good.”

Harry beamed at him. He carefully freed his hands from Snape’s and tentatively slid them around Snape’s neck. Snape didn’t protest. On the contrary, his own arms slowly slid to Harry’s waist and held him almost reverently. Harry got even bolder and put his cheek on Snape’s chest. 

They stood like that for some time, getting accustomed to each other’s smells and shapes. Harry could feel the rise and fall of Snape’s chest, could feel his warm breath on his forehead. If he glanced up, he could see the high collar of Snape’s shirt and the elaborately tied cravat which was hiding the scars on Snape’s throat. 

Harry didn’t know how long they stood holding each other in the middle of the shabby Shack. Finally, Snape’s arms slid off of Harry’s waist and Harry had to let go of Snape’s neck. 

The room was getting darker as the day was waning. Snape raised his hand to Harry’s face and traced Harry’s lips with his finger. “It won’t be easy.”

Harry extended his lips slightly, kissing the tender finger. “I know.”

Snape’s hand moved to Harry’s cheek. “You would be criticised.” 

Harry pressed his cheek into the caressing palm. “I know.”

Snape raised an eyebrow, smiling crookedly. His hand moved a bit higher, cupping Harry’s cheek and caressing the soft spot behind Harry’s ear. “You could lose everything.” 

Harry put his hand over Severus’ and pressed it closer to his cheek. “But I would have you.” 

The look Snape gave him was worth any kind of trouble Harry might get in the future.

The following kiss promised even more. 

When Snape ended the kiss, Harry was dazed. He barely registered when Severus took his hand. “We should go before it gets dark. I don’t want anyone to see me here.” 

Harry nodded and moved to follow Snape who went to the door, when he remembered something. “Oh, wait.” Snape looked at him in surprise. Harry grinned and rushed back to the window. He took the textbook and the enchanted roses and came back to Snape. “We can’t leave them here.” 

Snape smiled at him. Harry looked at roses, shook them slightly to remove the dust that wasn’t really there and gave the flowers to Snape. “Here, that’s for you”. Harry grinned again. “I know they are almost twenty years old, but I didn’t think to bring any fresh ones.” Snape chuckled and took the flowers. Harry raised his head to reach Snape’s ear and whispered, “I’ll give you fresh flowers every day, for the rest of our lives.” 

Snape laughed and grabbed Harry’s waist with one hand. “You’ll ruin yourself, Potter.” Harry looked up at this man who had suddenly become his. “Doesn’t matter, as long as you’re happy.”

Snape hid his pleasure behind a snort and tugged Harry to the door leading outside. 

And Harry followed him, willing and eager, knowing that he could cope with anything that future would prepare for him, as long as he could feel that warm arm around his waist, see that rarely smiling face and hear that raspy bewitching voice. His life would be different now.

But there would be one thing in his live, their lives, Harry smiled to himself, as Severus took his hand and led him outside Hogwarts’ anti-Apparition boundaries. Wherever they lived, there would always be those pale roses in their house. Fresh and lovely. Harry would make sure of it. 

A single pale pink petal fell to the ground where just a second ago a taller older man held closer to his chest a younger shorter one, as they Apparated somewhere to start their new life together.


End file.
